


What If...?

by ProvenTitan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Badly-Written Battle Scenes, Battle Scenes, Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble Collection, Gen, Hurt, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Disability, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-19 09:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10636740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProvenTitan/pseuds/ProvenTitan
Summary: A collection of 1000-5000 word oneshot-drabble-prompts... because I think of ideas but struggle to create fully-formed stories.These scenarios originate from a small change in a scene or storyline throughout any of the books (or films) and I write what I reckon would happen instead.I'm not continuing them past what I write here (probably) but if you want to, please do. These are ideas, free to a good home.





	1. What If... Harry Had Protested The Use of the Blood Quill by Umbridge?

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone reads this and thinks, "Wow! This has inspired me to write a full story about this scenario!":  
> FEEL FREE!!  
> These are prompts as well as just drabbles. All I ask is that you give me the fic name (once you write it) so I can credit you as inspired by this work, because I'd love to see what sparks your interests!  
> Thanks,  
> P.T. x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What If... Harry Had Protested The Use of the Blood Quill by Umbridge? (5312)

“Please sit, Mr. Potter.”

Umbridge’s sickly-sweet voice made Harry’s jaw clench in distaste. He pulled out the chair at the lone desk in her office and sat, pulling the quill and parchment closer.

“I would like you to write _‘I must not tell lies’_.” Harry’s hand flexed around the quill.

“How many times?”

“Well, let’s say… as long as it takes for the message to _sink in.”_

It would be just like her to give me no set target, Harry grumbled inwardly, giving no trace of his inner thoughts other than a small sigh. He was about to set the quill to parchment when he realised.

“Professor, you haven’t given me any ink.” Umbridge’s squashed face and wide mouth turned up in a disconcerting smirk.

“Oh, you won’t need any ink.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, but shrugged. Maybe it was just like a fountain pen or muggle biro, charmed to hold ink without needing a pot. It might explain why Umbridge looked so smug, gloating over her superiority of having a high-end quill. Harry rolled his eyes and set to work.

He had only reached the end of ‘tell’ when he felt a burning itch in his left hand. He grimaced and shook his hand, thinking he’d been bitten or hexed. He’d felt nothing crawl on him, but neither was anyone able to hex him, apart from Umbridge herself. But the casting on spells on students outside of lessons was strictly forbidden, so he doubted it.

He began the word ‘lies’ only to feel more burning and sucked the back of his hand furiously. His eyes widened; he could taste blood.

Looking down at his hand finally, he gasped at what he saw. Scrawled across the skin in vicious red, was _‘I must not tell’._ He looked at the parchment in front of him. He’d not even noticed the ink was red, it was too dark in the office. He raised his eyes slowly to Umbridge’s self-satisfied smile, her tiny beady eyes fixed on Harry’s pale face.

Harry shuddered. Looking back down at the quill, he thought quickly. With a three-hour time limit on all evening detentions, Umbridge could conceivably keep him here until eight o’clock, which left little time for homework that evening and almost no time to eat anything more than what he’d managed before detention. He could keep his head down, mow through the lines (and his own hand) and write as much as possible in an hour to catch most of dinner; however, Umbridge had no obligation to let him go after only an hour. There was no line target after all, what he could do in an hour could easily be not enough for her.

Not to mention the quill she’d given him. It wrote with his own blood, carving the message into his hand. He’d never heard of anything like it before, and he got the feeling that was for a reason. Surely, Umbridge wouldn’t have made him write with anything illegal? She was from the Ministry, after all. Although, Harry thought, all that really meant was that it would probably be much easier for her to get away with using illegal or dark objects.

He frowned. He wouldn’t let himself be taken advantage of by this toad of a professor, and despite his longing to get the detention over with and get to dinner, he knew that no matter what, he could end up missing it anyway. His eyes focused on the red words on the page, the blood now dried into the parchment fibres in sticky red-brown. His hand had now healed, but Harry could still feel the phantom pain of the words in his skin.

He made up his mind, and looked back up at Umbridge.

“Professor? What-”

“Silence in detention, Mr. Potter.”

Harry was taken aback. If she had her way, he wouldn’t even be _able_ to bring up what was happening right now. More than ever, the longing of just shutting up and getting on with it reared its head. But, Harry thought, if Umbridge thinks she can get away with doing this to one student, she could do it to whoever she wants. If I complain to her, what would she do? The only reason she doesn’t want me to say something is because she’ll lose her power. That means that this shouldn’t be happening, surely.

Harry nodded imperceptibly to himself. I’ll see what she says if I confront her head-on, he thought. If she’s upfront about what she’s doing, there’s less of a chance that it shouldn’t be happening. Although, she could just bluff, so I’ll have to be careful.

Suddenly remembering how Umbridge had lost her temper in Defence Against the Dark Arts the other day, his estimation of her bluffing ability went down a couple of notches.

“Professor, what is this quill?” Harry rushed through the sentence so she wouldn’t be able to interrupt him.

There was a pause, and Umbridge’s smile twitched. “Mr. Potter, for the last time, there will be _silence_ in my detentions.”

Harry hesitated. Time to try a different approach. “But, professor, my quill isn’t working.”

Umbridge, who had undoubtedly been about to issue another week of detentions, shut her wrinkled mouth with a click. She blinked her bulbous eyes twice, and then said lowly, “What on Earth are you talking about, Potter?”

Harry suppressed a smile; Umbridge would be unable to forbid him from talking now that she’d asked a question.

“Professor, this quill, what is it?”

Umbridge frowned, “I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean, Mr. Potter.”

“I’ve never seen a quill like this before. Where did you get it?” He replied.

“Please do not ask such mundane questions in a detention, Mr. Potter.”

Harry’s brows drew together. He tried again, “I can’t write very well with this quill, Professor.”

“This is a detention regarding what you are writing, not how, Mr. Potter.” Came the prim reply.

“Why have you given me a quill that writes with my own blood, Professor?” He retorted harshly.

“Such wild accusations will not be tolerated, Mr. Potter.” She snapped, eyes bulging.

Determinedly, Harry once more, “Professors are forbidden from casting harmful or disturbing spells at students outside of class without due cause, Professor.”

“I haven’t any notion as to what you mean by that statement, Mr. Potter. I have cast no spells on you at all.” Umbridge responded, voice heavy with faux-innocence.

Harry gritted his teeth. She’s definitely hiding something, he thought, and no matter what angle he poked at, she was iron-clad in asides and wordy denials. He could tell how she became such a successful politician. At this point, he was far too angry to be Slytherin.

“I’m sorry, Professor, but I’m not writing with that quill.”

“The quill in non-negotiable, Mr. Potter.” She refuted.

Harry scowled, “I will write whatever you want, for as many lines as you require, but I refuse to write with that Quill.”

“Mr. Potter. This your last warning to continue your detention with the instruments I have provided, or else I will be _forced_ to punish you further!”

With what? Harry thought, More detentions? Unlikely.

“I am not writing with that quill. I will write with any other quill, but not that one.” He stated, his voice firm. Umbridge leaned back in her chair.

“Then, Mr. Potter, you are hereby suspended for a week.”

Harry shot out of his chair, eyes wide. “No! You can’t, what for?!”

“Failure to comply with a teacher’s instructions during a detention.” Umbridge replied pretentiously, her smile wide and gruesome. “Ordinarily, there would be a letter sent home to inform the parents, however given your… circumstances,” her glittering eyes swept up and down his figure pressed rigidly against his desk and glaring furiously at her, “I should think this should go directly to the headmaster.”

She pulled a new sheet of pink-boarded parchment to her from a stack to her left and wrote deliberately and with tangible glee. With a flourish, she signed her name and pulled a dark candle of out a drawer in her desk. She tapped it with her wand twice before lighting the end and dripped a seal of dark green wax onto the letter, pressing into it the ring of her right ring finger.

She repeated the process after rolling up the parchment into a scroll with a spell, and triumphantly rounded the desk to hand it to a stock-still Harry. He looked at the letter in front of him, the letter that would see him cast from Hogwarts for a week. Where would he go?

Surely, not back to the Dursleys’, they weren’t expecting him for months, until summer. He’d hate to think of their reactions to him coming back on suspension, especially after what had happened that summer.

He could go to the Burrow, of course, but the thought of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s disappointed faces as he arrived in tow of the Headmaster filled his gut with lead. He didn’t want to be the cause of that look. He couldn’t.

With a shock of mixed guilt and delight, he remembered Sirius. Grimmauld Place would be perfect, despite being gross, and Sirius had broken so many rules as a kid, that he would probably congratulate Harry on his suspension, for being more like his father. Something inside Harry winced. Despite any misgivings, not that he had any, Grimmauld Place was his best bet.

As Harry went to reach for the pink-patterned scroll, he caught sight of the infamous quill lying discarded on the desk. An idea sparked within him, and he held back a grin.

He took the letter graciously, ignoring with effort the look of abject superiority on Umbridge’s toad-like face. As he bent to pick up his bag, his other hand swiped the Quill of off the desk, holding it just under the scroll with two fingers. He turned to leave the room and heard a sharp exclamation from behind him.

“Leave the Quill, Mr. Potter!”

He smirked, and turned around, his right arm by his side, left holding both the scroll and the quill. “Why would I do that, Professor Umbridge? Since I’m on my way to the Headmaster, I thought I might save myself a trip and see what he makes of this particular quill.”

He took another step toward the door, left arm stretching to the handle and saw from the corner of his eye, a jerk of movement.

“Expelliarmus!”

“Protego!” Umbridge’s spell careened off Harry’s swift shield and span into the wall behind Umbridge’s head. She ducked wildly. Harry stood unmoving, his hands clenched around scroll, quill and wand. His eyes narrowed as she turned violently and spat off another spell.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

“Protego!”

This spell sizzled against the shield and splintered into shards of light, flashing against the glass of the window and Harry’s glasses. The kittens in Umbridge’s many china plates began to yowl.

Breathing steadily, Harry spoke. “All professors and staff members of Hogwarts are forbidden to cast harmful or disturbing spells at students outside of class, Professor, without the due cause of a student either attacking first to being a danger to themselves or others. And no, threatening to report your _illegal Quill_ does not count.”

Harry spun around and marched out of the office, walking quickly but not running. He had every reason to believe Umbridge was going to come after him, but no reason to act on such beliefs. He would make himself vulnerable by sprinting through the corridors and breaking school rules, Harry told himself, his heart racing. However, as another spell flew past his ear and splashed against the stone in front of him, he rapidly re-thought that statement.

“Stupefy!” Umbridge screamed, running after him in panic. Her hair was falling away from its perfect curls and she was panting heavily. This woman was no accomplished spell-caster or battle-witch. She was a Ministry quill-pusher, as Ron would say, and that didn’t lend itself to possessing great stamina or ability. Being repeatedly targeted by a deranged Dark Lord, however, meant you picked up some stuff. Umbridge was nothing on Voldemort.

“Protego Maxima!”

Harry gritted his teeth against the spell’s impact, thinking quickly. He could counter Umbridge’s attacks, maybe Body-Bind her, to get away. He would be attacking a teacher, but as she’d attacked first, he may not be punished. Otherwise, he would have to make a break for it, and have her chasing him all the way to Dumbledore’s office. Despite this being a somewhat more dangerous approach, if Umbridge was witnessed chasing a student through the halls, he would have much more weight to his argument of corruption.

As Harry was about to make his decision, he froze in shock at the spell Umbridge had just fired. “Crucio!”

Harry cursed and leapt out of the way, dropping his shield spell and chanting, “Protego Horriblis!” It wouldn’t provide much more protection against the Unforgivables than _Protego Maxima_ did, but if Umbridge was willing to use the Cruciatus curse, then there was no reason why she wouldn’t use other dark spells.

His previous options re-wrote themselves. For one, now he knew Umbridge would stop at nothing to incapacitate (or even kill) him, getting away from her was quickly becoming a more suitable option. Added to the fact that it was now dinner, the halls would be deserted and Dumbledore was most likely down at the Great Hall, if not somewhere completely unknown, going to his office seemed like a useless idea.

However, if he incapacitated Umbridge, and she broke free (unlikely but possible) she could erase all spells in her wand and plead innocence. It would be her word against his, and with the press currently dragging his name through the mud and most of school against him, that would not turn out well for him.

As he dodged a second Cruciatus, a third option began to bloom. He could feign a retaliation, curse back at her but miss, and lead her on a chase. Not to Dumbledore’s office, but the Great Hall. Most, if not all, of the students and professors would be there, the perfect showground. If he riled Umbridge up enough, she might even try to curse him in the Hall itself, which would be just perfect. He already knew that she was panicking, and losing control of herself, or she wouldn’t have tried to use an Unforgivable.

He had to get her in a position where her Ministerial clout wasn’t enough to save her.

He ducked under a Stunning spell and started running again, this time casting over his shoulder in Umbridge’s general direction. He tried not to hit her, gesturing wildly, and only used first and second year jinxes and spells, nothing he’d learnt last year for the tournament.

Harry led her down three corridors and through a tapestry, checking behind him periodically to see if she was still chasing him, but trying to avoid looking like he was encouraging her. Umbridge seemed to be far too irrational to be thinking so logically, as no matter what he did, she kept coming after him like a pink, fuming Hogwarts Express.

Eventually, he ducked sideways, after pausing in the corridor and gasping as she rounded the corner, behind a tapestry. The embroidered wall-hanging led to a passage that intersected that of the kitchens, down three spiraling sets of flagstone stairs. From the exit passage, it was only a dash across two more hallways to the Great Hall. However, this was by far the most challenging part of the run.

Despite Harry’s superior stamina and speed, his marathon through the castle had left him tired and sweating. It was all he could do to keep firing the odd spell over his shoulder, his mind was so focused on getting to the Great Hall and not tripping and falling on the way. He sped to the top of the first flight of stone steps and paused, staring down. His foot had barely left the floor when Umbridge burst through the tapestry.

She stared at him, eyes blazing and bulging and howled, **“YOU!”**. She raised her arm and cast a spell Harry had never heard before, and he jerked his wand up as the purple light flew at him.

“Protego Horriblis!” His shield had barely formed when the spell crashed against it, and the impact sent him flying off his feet. His body seemed to stay suspended in the arm for an abnormally long time, leaving Harry wondering what that spell was, when he realised with a stab of dread that he was now free-falling down the stairs.

His back and shoulders impacted the steps with a sickening thud, and Harry felt a shock of white lance up his spine. His knees pushed against his chest and he struggled to breathe as the momentum of his fall sent him spinning down the curved passageway. He rolled against the wall more than anything, but when his arm cracked against the edge of a step, his head instinctively threw itself back in pain, and his whole motion was sent reeling out of control. He fell for what seemed like forever.

In reality, Harry fell down two of the three flights of stairs, which left him on the second floor. He sat at the bottom of the stairway, the tapestry in front of him and the next set of stairs to his left. He couldn’t breathe. His chest was tight and aching, each pull of air sent sharp shreds of pain down his ribs on both sides. He could hear vague echoing footsteps from above him, through a low ringing in his ears.

He had to get up.

Each blink seemed to last longer and longer. Harry’s entire body felt like it had been put in a washing-machine set to “family-sized”. One of his arms from halfway up his bicep was completely numb.

He _had_ to get up.

With the strength of will that had allowed him to keep playing quidditch with a broken arm, that had allowed him to stand and face Voldemort after being tortured with the Cruciatus curse, Harry pulled himself up. His legs refused to co-operate, and his body shook, only upright because the wall was taking most of his weight.

Harry knew distantly that the quickest way to the Great Hall was to his left. But he also knew that there were far less stairs if he went right. His ears held an odd whine like there was a mosquito sitting on each shoulder, but he thought he could hear panting. Umbridge was getting closer, and his head throbbed with the knowledge that she would expect to find his crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. He had to leave a sign.

He looked down, his vision immediately blurring with vertigo, and had to lurch forward and grab the tapestry to hold himself up. As he did, he left two smears of blood on the fabric. He blinked in shock. He hadn’t even realised he was bleeding.

As he walked out of the passageway into the corridor, he heard dripping and turn to see a small blood trail following him. Harry’s jumbled thoughts surmounted to, _“That’ll work”._

He began to walk to the Grand Staircase, which was down a few corridors. The staircase itself was not very long, only wide, and the bottom didn’t move very much. He had neared the staircase when he heard a low cackle from behind him.

 **“I’ve got you now, Potter!”** The voice shrieked, and Harry was reminded of the films of green-skinned witches he’d caught a glimpse of on TV at the Dursleys before Aunt Petunia had managed to turn them off.

“I’ll get you, my pretty,” He mumbled under his breath, mind dazed, “And your little dog, too.”

Harry turned the corner and saw the Grand Staircase.

There were a few students still milling about, waiting for their friends, and Harry remembered with a sharpness that made his head throb for a second, that it was only about twenty to six, and dinner was only just reaching its peak.

Harry tried a kind of fast-walk to the Staircase, and took the first step gingerly. He’d made it down four before someone saw him and cried out in alarm. Logically, Harry knew that Umbridge wouldn’t care if there were people around him, she’d try to curse him anyway. It was, therefore, vitally important that he get away from the stairs, because she would not try to limit any casualties to just him.

He picked up the pace, still clinging to the banister, and had almost reached the first floor when he heard loud, clacking footsteps from behind him. He spun, wide-eyed, and held onto the banister for dear life when his vision began to sway again. He saw a blurry pink figure stop at the top of the stairs, and knew that he was out of time.

He dashed down the stairs, vertigo forgotten, pain forgotten, his only focus was getting to the Great Hall as fast as possible. He heard the screech of Umbridge as she scurried down the steps after him as if from a long way away.

The corridors flew past him, and the students all bolted out of the way, more so to do with the enraged teacher behind him that his own flight. With a crashing sense of relief, Harry saw the open doors of the Great Hall, students staring at his bloodied, bruised shape from around the doors. He shot through the doors, veering left as a sizzling curse flew past him and shattered a stone flag.

He felt irritatingly similar to Quirrell in his first year, and later he would blame his concussion and addled mind for the next words out of his mouth,

“TOAD IN THE DUNGEONS!” He yelled, and the Hall fell silent in shock. Someone to his left snorted in laughter and that set off a chain reaction of giggles and chuckles, escalating to howls of laughter from anyone in fifth year or above.

Umbridge burst through the doors after him, the sight casting its own silencing spell over the Hall once again. He turned to look at the bedraggled, panting woman in front of him, and quickly threw himself away from a crackling blue curse.

“VAUNESCULUM!”

He’d never heard that one before either, but as it spun into the floor like a Catherine Wheel and carved a small mouth-shaped hole in the floor, he could guess what it was supposed to have done. The Hall stirred in shock, and McGonagall stood up slowly. The Headmaster’s chair was empty.

“Delores…?”

“REDUCTO!”

Harry dodged again, this time whacking his injured arm against the stone of the floor and shouted in pain. The chair behind him, luckily unoccupied, blew up, and several students shrieked as they were pelted with wood shrapnel.

“Delores! Stop this at _once!_ What is the meaning of this?!” McGonagall came storming down from the Staff table and rounded the corner. Umbridge, leveling her wand at Harry’s drawn, pale face gave a furious scream.

“THIS… _BOY_ IS SCUM! HE’S LYING, FESTERING SCUM, PURE PUTRIFACTION, AND I WILL NOT STAND FOR HIM! THE LITTLE FREAK SHOULD NEVER HAVE GOTTEN OFF HIS CHARGES THIS SUMMER, CASTING A PATRONUS IN FRONT OF A MUGGLE WAS BOUND TO GET HIM EXPELLED. _WHAT MORE DO I HAVE. TO. DO?!”_ Umbridge punctuated the last three words with a chain of brilliant orange spells, and Harry raised his wand desperately.

“PROTEGO MAXIMA!” He roared, and the spells ricocheted off the shield. One splashed into the floor and dissipated, one soared directly at McGonagall, who hastily cast her own shield charm and the last returned inexplicably to Umbridge’s wand. She smirked, her wide lips stretched in a nauseating smirk and cast again, the spell leaping straight from her wand before she’d started to speak.

_“FAUCIUM SCINDO!”_

Harry had no time to pull up another shield, and the spell soared straight through the barrier. At the last second, Harry tried to duck, but the curse wrapped around this throat and jaw like a whip. He fell back, mouth agape, and tried to breath. His eyes were becoming obscured with the blood pouring from his neck and mouth, his vision was getting darker and darker and.

\---------------------------------

Harry woke up.

He was surrounded by white, but that was all he could tell. He assumed his glasses were off and sitting somewhere, but couldn’t move his arms to check. He tried to make a sound in his throat, but instantly regretted it.

There was a loud noise and several people came running into Harry’s view, but he was far more stuck on the agony radiating through his jaw and neck. He couldn’t scream, because he knew if he did, he’d probably conk out from the pain, not to mention make things a lot worse. But at the same time, the waves of molten heat made his eyes water in anguish and distress.

He could hear talking and someone trying to get his attention. He opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) and saw the pale face of Madam Pomfrey, as well as the paler face of Professor Snape.

Saying the name of his hated professor in his head for some reason didn’t incite the usual dislike. His mind was numbed to his previous hatred of Snape, because, after all, he couldn’t be as bad as Umbridge.

The sallow face of his professor was fixed on his, the dark eyes narrowing at the blank look in Harry’s. He turned imperceptibly to Madam Pomfrey, catching her eye.

“I believe,” he began, mouth turned down in a frown of thought, “that Mr. Potter is, despite appearances, unaware of our presences.”

Harry blinked. He wasn’t unaware. He was just… tired. And in a lot of pain. He tried to tap the bed with his finger, but was unable to make a sound; he was frozen with a spell.

Pomfrey turned back to Harry, brows drawn together. “Mr. Potter? If you can hear and understand us, please blink twice.”

Harry blinked back, twice and very pointedly. A sigh of relief emanated from the matron, and she turned to Snape with almost an “I Told You So” air about her. He gazed back blankly, and she turned away with a cough.

“Very good, Mr. Potter. Now, I would like you to blink twice if you know where you are.”

He blinked. He was in the Hospital Wing.

“And, what day it is?”

To this, he paused. He wasn’t sure if he’d been unconscious in the Wing, and if so, for how long. He blinked only once, and she nodded thoughtfully.

“It is currently the 9th of September, a Tuesday. You’ve been unconscious for a full week. If you’d been under any longer, we’d have had to send you to St. Mungo’s.”

Harry wasn’t sure what, or who, “St. Mungo’s” was, but presumed it was probably something to do with Healing.

“Now,” began Madam Pomfrey, bringing his attention back to her, “I am going to point to a part of your body. I would like you to blink twice if it hurts.”

Madam Pomfrey then leaned over Harry slightly, and held her hands either side of his head.

“Head?”

He thought for a minute. His head did hurt, but not as much, by far, as his throat, so he blinked only once. She moved on.

“Neck?”

Harry blinked twice. Pomfrey nodded and then asked how much on a scale of one to five, with five being the most. He paused, wondering how to communicate “five” and then realised he was supposed to blink the number. He blinked, very obviously, five times, then thought about adding a sixth for good measure.

Pomfrey froze, wand held high. “Was that a… five?”

He blinked twice for yes.

Pomfrey sighed and waved her wand over his throat, then spelling the results onto a piece of parchment. Snape moved, for the first time in a while, startling Harry a little, and read over her shoulder.

They gave each other a dark, silent look, then turned back to Harry simultaneously. Harry’s brow furrowed the tiniest bit.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Potter,” It was Snape who spoke, solemn and slow, “That your injuries are the result of a dark curse we haven’t seen since the days of the War. As such, we are ill-prepared to treat you here. At first,” He continued, no doubt reading the naked emotion in Harry’s eyes as they struggled to focus, “We thought we would be able to heal you, as the shield you cast had possibly dampened the effects of the curse and I was able to get to you very soon with the potions you required. However, we have now discovered that the curse’s affects have damaged you more than we thought.”

“You will be transported to St. Mungo’s in less than an hour.” Added Pomfrey. Harry closed his eyes and waited.

\---------------------------------

Harry sat, smiling at the Gryffindor table, listening to the laughter and hubbub of the Great Hall. Hermione and Ron sat next to each other, on the other side of the bench, giggling and holding hands. Harry watched them with unbridled affection.

After he’d been transferred to St. Mungo’s almost five months ago, Hermione and Ron had come to visit every weekend, whenever they could get away. Hermione’s grades had dropped for the first time since her petrification in second year, and Ron had been cruising at a D in three subjects, but neither of them cared.

After Harry had begun to improve, he’d immediately scolded them about taking so much time away for no reason. Despite their protests, he’d limited their visits to once a month, plus Hogsmeade weekends. That ended up being once a fortnight, plus Hogsmeade weekends when he’d taken a turn for the worse after a month or two, but had led to the two of them spending so much time together that things had kind of… fallen into place.

Harry couldn’t be happier for them.

He looked down at his bowl of chowder and picked up a roll of baguette. Ignoring Hermione’s sharp look, he let it sit in the soup until it was thoroughly soaked, then picked it out and chewed it gratefully. After a four-month liquid diet, all he wanted sometimes was something crunchy or chewy. Unfortunately, anything that could conceivably scrape his throat was strictly forbidden, and spicy, crunchy or particularly hot foods were closely monitored by his friends, Madame Pomfrey and Professor Snape.

Harry raised a hand to the red-pink scars the trailed in a spiral around his shoulders, up his neck and ended about an inch onto his cheek. Umbridge had very nearly killed him with that curse, and once apprehended, had been questioned under Veritaserum by the DMLE and Auror Shacklebolt, who Harry had met that summer. She’d been thrown in Azkaban only two months after Harry had first been transferred to St. Mungo’s, and Fudge, who had been awkwardly dobbed in by her, had suddenly been on the back end of the Daily Prophet’s sharp tongue.

However, the breakout of the Death Eaters by Voldemort had occurred only a month or so before. Umbridge had been witness to the whole thing, after been tortured by Voldemort himself for nearly killing Harry. She’d requested an appeal immediately, and spilled the whole thing, outing Voldemort’s return before being found dead in a Ministry holding cell a week later, the words _“Ranae In Puteus”_ scrawled on the wall behind her in blood.

Harry had been left with life-long scars (again), a rather ‘delicate’ constitution, and severe to complete muteness. He would never talk again, and could barely make any noise that required stress on the vocal chords.

He stared at his bowl of smokefish chowder, watching the broth steam and the fish pieces bob around, and wondered who’d got the worse deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next one will probably NOT be this long (honestly, i got very carried away with this one, note the summary says 1000-5000 words!)  
> I'm not sure when i'll put the next chapter up, but it'll probably be soon...?  
> Again, if this inspired you, please let me know! and if you see anything that bugs you, typos, plot-holes, PLEASE LET ME KNOW.  
> i have no beta.  
> Thanks,  
> P.T. x


	2. What If... Umbridge had hurt (or even killed) a student when she blew up the door to the Room of Requirement?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What If... Umbridge had hurt (or even killed) a student when she blew up the door to the Room of Requirement? (2616)
> 
> (film only)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new chapter, also (for some reason) about Umbridge. i do have scenarios that aren't from fifth year.  
> also, i have gone over chapter 1 and made some grammatical changes and fixed typos that i didn't see the first time, but nothing big.  
> please enjoy,  
> P.T.

Harry looked around the Room of Requirement with pride. His peers (his students?) were progressing with their spell-work at an incredible rate. The wide room was filled with the silvery light of Patronuses, Luna’s only recently-formed white rabbit was leaping through the room with the joy of an innocent creature, and as his gaze rested on the others in his year, his proud smile grew.

Neville was standing by Parvati and Padma, surreptitiously trying to listen in on the latter trying to teach the former the right wand movement. Parvati’s Patronus was starting to become corporeal, and she was convinced it was a Bengal tiger, as Padma had suggested that she’d seen stripes. Harry, however, had a distinct feeling it was a Painted Lady butterfly, and that Padma’s own was a marlin.

Neville, he wasn’t so sure about. From what he could gather, it was quite big, as those that had trouble forming the basic shape of their Patronus often didn’t create enough space for it to form with their wand movements. The swirl before the flick was almost like a portal for the Patronus to come through, and if it wasn’t big enough, it wouldn’t be able to form. However, making the ‘portal’ too big often resulted in a lack of control over the spell, and a waste of energy.

Harry was about to call a halt to the practise to explain his theory when the bright lights of the Room wavered and flickered. Several others looked up, spells flickering and dying, and Harry called quick stop of spell-casting, eyes on the ceiling.

The chandelier was made of candles that didn’t drip wax, similarly to the Great Hall, and the movement had caused some of them to blow out. They were steadily re-lighting themselves, but Harry felt an odd prickling at the back of his neck, as though the wall behind him was made of glass.

He made his way over to Ron and Hermione and went to speak when another surge shook the room. It sounded like a battering ram from very far away, Harry thought, and immediately gripped his wand tighter.

“Wands at the ready, guys. This is Umbridge.”

A gasp rippled through the room, and several people cursed with alarm. Hermione cast Harry a wide-eyed look. “How do you know, Harry?” she hissed under her breath. Harry looked at her steadily, brows drawn.

“It feels like we’re suddenly very exposed, like the walls have been charmed transparent. I haven’t ever felt like that in the Room before. The only time I remember feeling like this was when Snape was looking through my memories. I know she’s found us.”

Another crash. One of the mirrors that they used for reflexive casting wobbled and shattered, the noise making several people jump. Harry heard Hermione whisper a charm under her breath, but quickly put it out of his mind as Ron and he began to herd the students toward the far wall. Harry saw an _Incendio_ go spinning past his head and hit the parchment Hermione had stuck to the wall, the one with all their names on it, and shouted a thank you just as the wall behind them cracked down the middle.

Silence fell on the room, and out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw the third year that had been so proficient with the _Flipendo_ charm creeping toward the split. He broke away, running to the boy’s side and pushing him toward the crowd. From behind him, he heard the high-pitched titter of the toad herself.

“All together now! Everyone, _Bombarda Ma-”_

 _“PROTEGO-!”_ Harry roared, and dove away from the wall as it shattered into pieces, huge chunks of stone flying through the air and shrapnel soaring. There was a sound like a storm breaking overhead, like black thunderclouds opening, and then the Room was engulfed in a massive dust cloud, obscuring all sight.

* * *

 

Harry’s vision was completely black, and his head rang like there was a tuning fork inside his skull. He could hear, like from very far away, coughing and screaming, someone sobbing in terror. A name he knew was being shouted over and over, but he couldn’t quite recognise it.

He moved, and his shoulder stung with pain, like there was a gash in it. He was lying face down on the rubble that was covering the training mats they’d been practising on not ten minutes before. His glasses were askew, and one eye was still completely dark. The other, he’d managed to blink back to vision, and the landscape in front of him looked like bombsite.

Students were heaving and crying, some stuck beneath fragments the size of small pianos or wardrobes. Some students weren’t moving at all, faces bloodied or slack in unconsciousness.

Harry hoped it was just unconsciousness.

He stood, the Room still blanketed by a smokescreen of stone dust, and pulled his shirt over his mouth to stop himself from breathing it in. He looked toward the shattered wall, and saw the vague outlines of at least eight people, all still stood at the entrance to the Room. He cast a _Protego Maxima_ , then another, then another, and on the third he felt someone else join him. It was Seamus, his light brown hair dark and stuck to his forehead. He gave Harry a grim nod, eyes bright with shock and fear, but turned back to casting. Harry faced the Room and saw that more and more people were stood, looking back at him. Some were nursing wounds or favouring limbs. Others were bent over other students, casting whatever charms they knew or levitating rocks away. But the majority, the strong majority, were staring at him.

Harry’s eyes darted over the crowd, searching. Neville was at his front right, leaning over Luna who looked even more dazed that usual. Her wand was in his hands, and Harry could help but think that if she’d had it behind her ear like usual, it would either have snapped in half or lobotomised her.

He couldn’t see Ginny, or Cho. Parvati was by her sister, leaning against one wall. She was holding her ribs and looked green. The third year boy was knocked out to his left, but Harry could see his chest rising and falling. George, Susan, Alicia and Justin had joined Seamus in casting a barrier against Umbridge, and as Harry looked, he could see that from the other side they were trying to break through. The shield wouldn’t last much longer.

He turned back, looking for red hair, freckles, brown skin, bushy hair.

They were to the left of him, both near the side of the room, and further back. Hermione’s wide brown eyes were fixed on him, and her lip was bleeding. Ron’s arm was around her, his wand tightly held, and his face was screwed up in pain. But he was standing.

Harry took a deep breath. He still couldn’t see out of one eye, and his head was aching fiercely, but he had to act fast.

“Neville!” He called, and the Room quietened. From where he stood, Luna leaning against him, the other boy turned his head. “I need you to pick two other people and start getting the injured out. Those who can walk need to help, levitating or supporting those who can’t. Do you know the quickest path to the Hospital Wing?”

Luna raised her hand, as though she were in class, “I do, Harry. I’ve often had to find my way through the secret passageways in search of my shoes.”

Harry nodded, and Neville nodded back, taking Luna’s hand and making his way over to Padma. He spoke into her ear, Padma soon picking herself up and grabbing Parvati.

“I need everyone capable of holding down the fort to come and join me up here. We need to stop Umbridge from getting through before the hurt students are clear. We’re splitting into those who can defend, and those who can attack.”

Harry ignored the sharp looks from several people, and mutterings of ‘Attacking? A teacher? We’ll be expelled!’

“Everyone who can defend, get up here and strengthen the shield,” Several people made to move forward, “anyone who can’t, I need you to help Neville’s group and levitate some of this stone off the unconscious students into barriers in front of us.” The groups quickly merged and split, cries of _Protego_ and _Wingardium Leviosa_ echoing off the three intact walls.

“Ron,” Harry hurried over to the two of them, “Are you too hurt to stay?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Ron hissed through clenched teeth, “Like hell I’m leaving the two of you to have all the fun.”

“Harry…!” Hermione’s voice was half-worried, half-exasperated.

Harry sighed, thinking quickly. “Okay, but I need someone to get a message to the teachers. I really hoped I could rely on you to-”

Ron cut him off with a stern glare. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he warned, “I’m just… going along with it.”

Harry gave him a grateful smile, and received a bigger one from Hermione as Ron strode off ungainly with the first of the walking injured.

“Thanks for not letting him stay.” She whispered.

“I really did need a messenger, you know. And you weren’t the only one who saw him wince when he raised his arm.” He replied, smiling, and they turned to face the shield.

It was only just holding, the group of fifteen strong all chanting under their breath. On the other side, clear as day, was Umbridge, as well as several Slytherins, including Malfoy, Parkinson, Montague, Goyle, and…

“Cho?!” Harry gasped, staring at the girl by Umbridge’s side. Her dark hair was covering one eye, but the other was wide in horror and filled with tears. He shook his head, stunned.

 _She’d_ betrayed them?

She’d betrayed _him?_

A curse flying into the barrier startled him back into wakefulness, his eyes now fixed on Parkinson’s sneering face. Next to her, Malfoy looked even paler than usual, staring rigidly at the wreckage of the Room behind them.

Harry gritted his teeth, and gestured with his uninjured arm. The ranks of students behind him shuffled forward, closing the gaps in their lines.

“Hold them off. Use anything non-harmful you can think of to keep them at bay, sixth-year spell or second-year jinx, I don’t care. Keep them out of the room until we’re clear of injured. Then I want you all to get to the Hospital Wing as fast as you can.”

“Harry-!” Hermione began shrilly, but was cut off by Harry’s low order.

“Be warned. They’ll likely not be returning the non-harmful favour. Keep your eyes sharp and your reflexes sharper.”

Hermione stared desperately at Harry’s dusty, sweat-streaked face, and he avoided her eyes as best he could, staring ahead at the advancing crowd. Then, in his peripheral, he saw her throw her hands up in the hair and spin to face the front. He smiled, and raised his wand.

 _“FORWARD!”_ He yelled, and they sprang into action.

* * *

 

The battle (for it was a battle) was messy and confusing. The dust in the air made it hard to see and breathe, and no amount of vanishing spells or air-clearing charms would shift it. However, the DA had been practicing together for months now, and could tell each other apart a lot more easily than the rag-tag Inquisitorial Squad and its Queen Toad.

They thinned the crowd with ease, using Jelly-Legs jinxes and Body-Binds to take people out of the fight. There was the odd _Stupefy_ if someone wouldn’t stay down, but for the most part, the Slytherins seemed wholly unwilling to put themselves at risk of actual bodily harm.

No doubt Umbridge didn’t expect resistance, Harry thought, slashing his wand and sending a Banishing spell at a fourth-year he didn’t know, she probably told them all they would be doing is corralling us like so many spiders, to be scooped up in a glass and rightfully removed from offending their presences.

There were few opponents left that he could recognise. Malfoy was nowhere to be seen, and Parkinson was glaring furiously at the ceiling from under a body bind. Crabbe and Goyle were both laid out, stunned, and he thought he saw the troll-like Montague being carted off by the Weasley twins and stuffed into a cupboard.

 _“Enough!”_ came a high shriek, and Harry turned to see Umbridge apoplectic with rage, _“Crucio!”_

A bolt of red shot across the room and hit an unsuspecting Angelica, who had just finished stunning Theodore Nott. She let out a scream of pain and collapsed, writhing and yelling, and Harry darted after her.

 _“Finite Incantatem!”_ He heard Hermione cry, followed by three stunners in quick succession.

Umbridge threw up a shield to deflect them, and one went whizzing past her, but now even some of the Slytherins were staring at her in alarm. There were a couple out of the remaining few that had suddenly adopted expressions of dark glee, and Harry swore, still kneeling by Angelica’s twitching form. He raised his wand, the pain in his shoulder forgotten as he wound his free arm around her shoulders, and opened his mouth to cast _Protego Horriblis._

He never got the chance.

In a flurry of robes, several teachers and Aurors burst round the door, Dumbledore at their head. They took in the wreckage of the room in shock and dismay, and one Auror, who Harry recognised as Kingsley Shacklebolt, disarmed Umbridge immediately.

She instantly began to squawk her innocence, puffing up in righteous indignation like a frog’s throat. McGonagall, Snape and Pomfrey quickly began to sift through the students, dispensing help and medical aid. Even the dour Potions Professor looked cowed, and was behaving more soberly than Harry had ever seen him. As Snape stood after binding the leg of a girl who’d had it trapped under rubble and yet hadn’t gone with any of the injured, Harry raised his bad arm and waved quickly, his shoulder heavily protesting the movement.

The Professor came over, almost visibly trying to stop himself from flinging accusations or going on a tirade. Instead, he offered, “What seems to be the problem here?” in a tone reminiscent of bedrock.

Harry gestured to Angelina, who was lying back against his knees with her head in his lap. “Umbridge cursed her.” He spat, his body throbbing with pain and exhaustion.

“Do you know what with?” Snape replied, raising his wand over unconscious girl.

“Cruciatus.” The dark wand jerked from its place over Angelina’s head and Snape’s head spun so fast, his hair flared out behind him like a curtain.

“Are you sure?” He spoke harshly, dark eyes glaring, and Harry glowered back.

 _“Yes. I’m sure._ Ask anyone else in this bloody room, she did it about twenty seconds before you all got here.”

Snape gave Harry an unreadable look, and stood abruptly, striding over to where Shacklebolt had hold of a furious Umbridge. He spoke lowly to Shacklebolt for a second or two, and then grasped Umbridge’s wand when it was offered to him, at the extreme displeasure of Umbridge herself, who was quickly silenced McGonagall.

The room turned to watch as Snape waved the wand. _“Priori Incantatem.”_ He declared, and gasped seemingly despite himself as an ethereal re-image of Angelina throwing her head back and screaming in pain emerged from the wand amongst red smoke.

“The Cruciatus…” Dumbledore muttered, his wrinkled hands clutching one another.

Umbridge was standing stock still, staring at the point where the smoke, now dissipated, had hung.

With a heavy look, Snape returned Umbridge’s wand to Shacklebolt, and he sighed and pocketed it.

“The Daily Prophet’s going to have a field day with this one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is notably shorter, i tried to keep the word count lower by not going of on so much of a tangent. this one was easier as well, as in the last one Harry is far more OOC (more slytherin really, he's thinking about what he's doing more).
> 
> i have 15 more of these scenarios planned and this list keeps growing, so if you would like to help me pick the next one, please comment a number from 1 to 15.
> 
> thanks so much,  
> P.T.


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